Page 16 of Bodyguard By Night

Her blue eyes were so damn bright and happy. Little crinkles had formed at the corners from her perpetual smiles and her new outdoor lifestyle. At the very least Clay had definitely put a light inside my sister.

I was pretty sure it was more than a light based on her giddy laughter.

Orgasm glow was like perfect makeup—you shouldn’t know it was there, but it showed off the best parts of you—and mine was expired. Probably because most of the men I’d been with didn’t know a clitoris from a thumb. The way my sister was dragging me up to see her fiancé, I was pretty sure he was all good on that front.

Sure, it could be love, but probably notjustlove.

As we got closer, my sister’s glow dimmed. She dropped my hand as we got to the top of the stairs.

“What happened?”

Yep, that was blood on Clay’s collar. And Ransom was sporting a few busted knuckles and an angry gash on his chin.

I stuffed my hands into my denim jacket pockets. “Hey, Weirdo.”

Ransom gave me a quick jerk of his chin. “Chaos.”

I wrinkled my nose at him. “Bar fight? Really?”

Ransom shrugged. “Wasn’t my fault.”

Rachel rushed to Clay and touched his bruised cheek. “What happened?” she repeated.

“He didn’t duck,” Ransom said as he leaned back on the chair rail beside the dart board.

His relaxed pose didn’t fool me. His storm-colored eyes were far too intense as he scanned the half dozen people who filtered in and out of our section. Especially a pair of guys getting progressively louder in the corner.

Clay lifted his beer to rest against his cheekbone. “It’s nothing. Little bar fight is all.”

“Little—” Rachel sputtered.

He set his beer down, then he brought her hands down to lay against his chest. “It’s over.”

“Except for that shiner.”

Clay glanced at Ransom. “Not helping.”

“I was actually surprised you remembered how to fight at all. Desk jockey.”

“Web jockey these days,” Clay shot back.

“Still includes a desk.”

My gaze bounced from Clay to Ransom and back again. “Are we still measuring dicks at this age?”

“And you’re…what? Twenty?” Ransom smirked.

“Twenty-six, thanks.”

He shook his head. “Infant.”

I flipped a middle finger at him.

“I rest my case.” He reached for a glass on the table.

“And how old are you, hotshot?”

“Thirty-six.”